


Coming home

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [20]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (for the last quarter), 3+1, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FebuWhump2021, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Papa Vesemir, Soft Witchers (The Witcher), brief mention of Lambert/Coën, brief mention of eating issues, no beta we die like Witchers – alone on the Path
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29580759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: Eskel is out of his bed and room within seconds, barely even pausing to grab his cloak. He runs out into the courtyard barefoot, the sudden cold jolting through him like a shock. But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because there is Geralt. Shivering, covered in snow and barely able to get off his horse, but it is undeniably Geralt and something inside Eskel gives way at the sight. He walks towards him, catches him when his legs buckle the moment they hit the ground.“You made it,” he whispers against Geralt’s icy skin. “You’re back. You’re here.”“’course I am,” Geralt mumbles past his frozen lips. “Missed you too much.”*Three times Geralt and/or Eskel were late returning from the Path. One time one of them doesn’t make it home at all.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Coming home

**Author's Note:**

> So, uhhhhhhh. Anyone in need of a cathartic cry? 😬 If you don't want to deal with the major character death bit, simply stop reading after the first three parts (I won't be mad). 
> 
> Today's prompt was Betrayal - I chose Alt Prompt 10 instead, "Please come back."

Geralt should be here. He should be home.

Eskel frets as he stands on the walls of Kaer Morhen and looks out into the valley. He closes his eyes and concentrates on his hearing, hoping that perhaps he can pick up a sound, _any_ sound that would signal Geralt’s return to the keep. Geralt has a habit of being one of the last of them to arrive, true, but he has never been _this_ late – there are grey clouds gathering on the horizon, heavy with snow. The passes will close soon, perhaps already tonight, and they’ll be cut off from the outside world for the rest of the winter.

And for the first time since they set out on the Path, Geralt _isn’t here_.

“He’ll come.” Vesemir steps up on the parapet next to Eskel, brushing his shoulder as he, too, crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks out into the forest, waiting for a sign that his pup is alive and making his way back to them.

“But what if he _doesn’t_?” Eskel says the words so quietly that nobody without a Witcher’s enhanced senses would be able to hear them. They’ve only been on the Path for a few short years, still discovering both the wonders and cruelties the world out there has to offer. And Geralt always gives so much, always wants to help, does so easily overextended himself if it only means that he can _do_ something, prove himself to be _useful_. Eskel has always thought that one day this would be the death of him. One day. Not now. Not so soon.

Vesemir says nothing for a long time, evidently just as lost in his thoughts as Eskel is. Then he reaches out, squeezes Eskel’s shoulders like he used to when he and Geralt were just boys.

“He’ll come,” he repeats.

Eskel takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air prickle in his lungs. He could stand out here all day, watching for any sign of his brother approaching, but there is a long lists of tasks that still need to be done before the snowstorm arrives and there are only a few of them here, perhaps twenty Witchers plus the last of the instructors that are still left. He distracts himself from his worry by helping Vesemir clean out the kitchen and nailing the shutters of all the rooms in the keep they won’t be needing closed.

Lambert helps him with the latter task. It was his first year on the Path, the last and youngest of the Kaer Morhen Witchers finally leaving the nest and he is bursting with stories – and questions, some of the sort that he doesn’t want any of the older Witchers to hear. It is rare for him to be so talkative and Eskel tries his best to listen and to answer, but he keeps being distracted, and eventually, Lambert simply stops talking.

“Do you think Geralt is-“ he asks and then stops himself when Eskel directs his burning gaze at him.

“He is not dead,” Eskel says sharply, more so than he means to. Lambert’s expression immediately closes up again, lips pressed into a thin line as he redirects his attention back to the task at hand. Eskel takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Rationally, he knows it isn’t fair of him to take his growing anxiety and desperation out on Lambert, not when he is one of the few people the prickly young Witcher actually _trusts_.

“He isn’t dead,” he repeats, far more softly than before. “I’d know it. He’s just late returning, is all. He’ll be back.”

Lambert bites his lips and rubs at the shiny new scars on his head, but eventually he nods. Whether it is just to appease Eskel or whether he actually believes him, Eskel doesn’t know, but he doesn’t much care at the moment. They finish their work on the shutters in absolute silence, after which Lambert hurries off into the kitchen, leaving Eskel alone with his thoughts once more. He tries his best to distract himself, takes on extra duties for the rest of the day, pretending not to notice Vesemir’s worried glance as he works himself to exhaustion.

It is late when Eskel finally decides to go to bed. More so because both Vesemir’s and the other Witchers’ glances have become more obvious throughout the evening than because of any real hopes that he might be able to find some rest. He has only just finished getting ready for bed when he can hear a commotion outside. The clatter of horse hooves and the muted sound of several voices. One of them-

Eskel is out of his bed and room within seconds, barely even pausing to grab his cloak. He runs out into the courtyard barefoot, the sudden cold jolting through him like a shock. But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because there is Geralt. Shivering, covered in snow and barely able to get off his horse, but it is undeniably Geralt and something inside Eskel gives way at the sight.

He walks towards him, catches him when his legs buckle the moment they hit the ground.

“You made it,” he whispers against Geralt’s icy skin. “You’re back. You’re here.”

“’course I am,” Geralt mumbles past his frozen lips. “Missed you too much.”

Eskel wants to kiss him, wants to bury him in his arms and never let go, but he is mindful of the company around them and of the fact that Geralt looks like he’s only a hair’s breadth away from unconsciousness and hypothermia. He slings Geralt’s arm over one of his shoulders. Vesemir, who had been only moments behind him, takes the other side, and together they help him inside. The other Witchers will take care of Roach and her saddlebags.

By now, everyone has heard the commotion in the yard, and Eskel sends a wide-eyed but relieved-looking Lambert ahead into his room to stoke the fire in his hearth.

“C’mon, Geralt,” he murmurs. “Not far now. Almost there.”

“Mhm.” Geralt leans heavily against him, almost causing Eskel to stumble. He curses and steadies himself against the wall. Vesemir throws him a worried and questioning glance, mouthing ‘ _Infirmary?_ ’ but Eskel just shakes his head. He is fairly sure that all that Geralt needs right now is copious amounts of warmth and rest. Some food and drink, too, to help him regain his strength faster.

Vesemir and Eskel unceremoniously drop Geralt into Eskel’s bed, once they have taken off his cloak and outer clothing. It has already begun to drip as the snow on them is melting. Eskel positions him as close to the fire as possible, taking Geralt’s hand into his and rubbing them.

“Why on earth did you decide to keep riding throughout the night?” he wants to know when it seems that Geralt is slowly becoming lucid again.

“Ran out of supplies three days ago. Wanted to see you. Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Geralt mumbles. Eskel doesn’t know whether he wants to smack or kiss him. In the end, he settles for pressing a kiss on Geralt’s scarred and cold knuckles instead.

“You idiot,” he says gently. “You could have died.”

“Nah.” Geralt shakes his head slowly. “Not that bad. Besides, made it here, didn’t I?”

Eskel sighs, drawing him into a hug. He presses his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, trying not to shudder at how cold his skin still is. He closes his eyes and breathes in his scent, so familiar and comforting all at once. Geralt has always smelled like home to him, as if his presence is all that Eskel needs to finally make him feel safe.

“Yes, yes you did,” he whispers, smiling a little as a laugh rumbles up through Geralt’s throat and makes his chest vibrate.

*

“Geralt, you need to stop pacing, or you’ll wear holes into the floor.”

Geralt pauses for a moment and looks over at Vesemir, before resuming his path over the stones of Kaer Morhen’s main hall. Vesemir’s brow is creased in a frown as he gestures for Geralt to take a seat on the bench next to him where his dinner plate is still sitting empty, unspoiled by any food on the table.

“Come on, you need to eat something.” There is an almost pleading expression in Vesemir’s eyes. Geralt wants to lash out at him – how can he think about eating, can be worried about _Geralt_ when Eskel is still out there, perhaps dead or dying, and not coming back? Instead, he just balls his hands into fists until he can feel his fingernails digging into his skin, leaving bloody grooves. He leaves the hall without looking back, the door banging shut behind him.

He doesn’t much care what the other Witchers think about his little scene – so few of them are left anyway. Lambert is wintering elsewhere and there are just three of the older Witchers here besides Vesemir, and one of the mage assistants who is so old he barely makes it out of his bed for meals anymore these days. _Why cannot it not be any of them who aren’t home?_ Geralt thinks, full of anger. _Why does it have to be Eskel?_ He is ashamed for the thought almost as quickly as he has it, but it doesn’t quite drench the fire inside his chest.

Geralt continues his pacing in his room. He considers doing a few more tasks, just to distract his mind, but everything that he thinks about somehow reminds him of Eskel, of the way he sometimes smiles to himself when he thinks of a good memory, of the sunlight reflected in his hair, his eyes, and how he would always tease Geralt about how much he hated scrubbing floors. Even his own room carries memories of Eskel everywhere and when Geralt looks at his bed from the corner of his eyes he can almost delude himself into thinking that Eskel is lying curled up under his covers, waiting for Geralt to join him.

He is just about to give up and walk over to the laboratories in order to do some late-evening potion brewing when the door to his room opens and Vesemir steps through, a small bundle in hand. Geralt can smell bread and cheese and some sort of pickled vegetable.

Geralt wants to snarl when he sees him, but something in Vesemir’s eyes keeps him from doing so. He remembers the pain in them whenever any of the Witchers fail to come back, the way his shoulders always seem to slump a little more with each soul that’s lost.

“You haven’t eaten in two days,” Vesemir says, holding out the bundle in his hands. “Please, Geralt.”

Geralt takes it from him but doesn’t eat. He sets it on the table instead, takes one of the pieces of bread and begins turning it in his hands.

“Do you think.” He feels his voice break, swallows, and tries again. “Do you think there’s any chance he’s still alive?” He hates how frightened he sounds. Like a little boy, waiting for Vesemir to hug him and tell him everything will be alright.

Vesemir looks at him and sighs. Instead of answering, he sits down on the edge of Geralt’s bed, pats the space next to him. Geralt wants to remain standing, still filled to the brim with nervous energy, but he sits down nonetheless. Vesemir’s familiar smell fills his nose, the same smell that has accompanied him throughout his childhood, always a sign of safety, of _home_. He swallows again, his eyes growing wet. Geralt hates how powerless he is feeling.

“There is a chance,” Vesemir finally says. “After all, you were late, too, that one winter, you remember?”

Of course he does. He also recalls the haunted expression that had stayed in Eskel’s eyes for days after.

“There is also a good chance that he isn’t,” Vesemir continues, even more softly. “You know how it is on the Path.” Yes, Geralt knows, remembers only too well all those times where he’d manage to survive by pure luck alone, those scrapes with death that were far too close. Perhaps Eskel’s bones are mouldering in a forgotten swamp somewhere even now, or his skeleton swings from the gallows in a faraway town.

Geralt’s fingers clench in the fabric of his pants and he has to remind himself that they don’t know yet. That Eskel could walk through the gate at any moment, frozen and grumpy, but alive.

“I wouldn’t know what to do if he was just…gone,” Geralt whispers, looking down at his knees. There are breadcrumbs all over it from the piece of bread he’s still holding. He puts it on the bedside table, the sight of it suddenly making him nauseous.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Vesemir’s voice is firm and reassured, and Geralt wants to believe everything he says so badly. Vesemir sighs and suddenly Geralt finds himself pulled against his old mentor’s shoulder. He resists for only a moment before he leans against his body, reaches out to wrap his arms around Vesemir’s midsection and buries his face in his tunic.

The sobs wrack his entire body, the thought of Eskel being gone after not even a few decades on the Path too monumental, too impossible to bear. He is vaguely ashamed of the strength of his tears, but Vesemir says nothing, just patting his back with his hand and humming a few calming words under his breath. It takes a long time before his tears finally begin to dry up.

Geralt extracts himself from Vesemir’s embrace with one last sniff, trying to wipe his face clean with the sleeves of his shirt. Not very successfully, if Vesemir’s expression is anything to go by. Vesemir sighs and gets up, fetches a cloth that he wets in the washbasin next to the windowsill. Geralt takes it with a grateful nod.

“You need to eat. Promise me you’ll eat, and then try to sleep.” Vesemir’s eyes are serious. “Tomorrow is a new day.” _Perhaps tomorrow, he’ll come_. Geralt nods, feeling numb and exhausted, but just a tiny bit lighter. He grabs the bread from the table and takes a small bite, forcing himself to chew and swallow. Vesemir nods encouragingly.

When Geralt crawls into bed, all he wants is to go to sleep and wake up to find Eskel next to him.

The next two days pass in a blur. Geralt is sure he has actually _done_ anything, but he also can’t remember having done nothing. There is a hazy grey mist in his memory where time should be and his entire body is aching, the way it usually only does after a particularly strenuous hunt. It’s Vesemir who drags him out of his room in the end, and into the kitchen. Geralt still has trouble remembering to eat, but he has always had a love for cooking, and a knack for making bread, and standing there and kneading batch after batch of dough is a simple enough way to pass the time, even for him. He loses himself in the motion, the regularity and predictability of it, so strongly that he doesn’t even notice at first when the door to the kitchen is being thrown open in an all together too violent manner.

The scent is what hits him and pulls him out his stupor. There is only one Witcher who smells like this – the rich scent of wet earth and celandine, of leather and just a whiff of blood. Geralt turns and doesn’t say a single a word when he falls into Eskel’s arms. He just buries his face in his clothes, wet and cold from the way here, breathes in his scent as deeply as he can.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel whispers into his hair, his arms reaching up to wrap tightly around him. His voice is barely recognisable, scars probably burning in pain from the cold and making each word a challenge. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t ever do this again,” Geralt says, hiding his shaking voice against his chest. “Not ever.”

“Of course not, Wolf. Of course not. I’ll always be there.” Geralt wishes he could believe it.

*

 _Please come back. Please come back. Please come back_. The words endlessly repeat themselves in Vesemir’s head as he stares out into the snowy blankness of the landscape beyond Kaer Morhen. No matter how hard he looks, how much he strains his eyes, he is incapable of spotting anything moving that’s larger than a deer.

No faint hoofbeats or the sounds of Geralt’s laughter, no hint of Eskel’s gruff baritone that can carry so far in the silence of the mountains. Both of them are gone, as if the earth had devoured them. Or as if killed by monsters.

It isn’t unheard of for Witchers to travel together for a while – some contracts are more easily fulfilled with two instead of one, and Geralt and Eskel have had each other’s backs for long enough now that Vesemir is fairly sure that neither of them would be alive now without the other. He wonders if they died like this as well, fighting side by side, or whether some cruel twist of fate had haunted them and led to their ends in different parts of the world.

“Old man.”

Vesemir turns to find Lambert standing next to the stairs leading down from the ramparts. There is a bitter irony to the fact that this is Lambert’s first winter in three years that he has made it home although at least he’d been kind enough to send a letter announcing his absence for the last two. Vesemir still isn’t sure whether he has actually forgiven him for remaining silent and letting them think him dead the first one.

He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at Vesemir from below the black strands of his hair. His gaze is sharp, but not unkind.

“What are you doing here, Lambert?” Vesemir didn’t mean for the question to come out this sharp. Lambert rocks back on his heels a little, his face closing off. Evidently, he considers walking back down the stairs to where he came from, before he squares his shoulders and takes a few steps towards Vesemir.

“Wanted to have a look if they’re out there somewhere,” he finally admits. “Dunno. Seems strange for both of them to be late, y’know. Maybe they holed up somewhere together.”

“Maybe.” Vesemir doesn’t need to hide how sceptic he is about Lambert’s theory, probably born from wishful thinking far more than from any tangible notion.

“Might’ve just been so busy shagging they forgot time,” Lambert murmurs, brows creased in a frown. Vesemir reaches out and gently punches his arm, making Lambert laugh. After a moment, Vesemir finds himself joining in.

“Did you know they were convinced for the longest time that they’d managed to keep their relationship a secret?”

“Ha.” Lambert snorts. “They’re lucky that Witchers can’t blush, although it would be hard to think of how they could be more obvious.”

“Mhm.” Vesemir throws a sidelong glance at his youngest pup, a little surprised by the amount of affection in his voice. He knows that Lambert had always been close to Eskel, the only person who had ever been able to calm the feral boy when he had first come into Vesemir’s care. His relationship with Geralt has always been more guarded, only strengthening in more recent years, during the few rare times that Lambert had wintered at Kaer Morhen, before his latest stint of absences. After Marren’s death on the Path five years ago they are now the only Wolf Witchers left. He strongly suspects that being holed up with nothing but the two love birds and an old man for company was one of the reasons why Lambert had decided not to join them again for a while. The sun travels across the sky, and yet neither of them move from their post on the parapet, staring out into the wilderness below.

“Did you ever allow guests from other Schools here?” Lambert asks, all of a sudden. The words tumble out of him in one great gust, and he clamps his mouth shut afterwards as if he already regrets asking.

“A few, although rarely. It was more common before…” _most of us died_ “…the Sacking. Why?” Vesemir risks another sideways glance at Lambert who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than having this conversation right now.

“I.” Lambert swallows. “I-. Ah, forget that I asked. It’s not important.”

Vesemir raises his eyebrows. Normally he would let Lambert be, would wait for him to come to him in his own time, but they might well be the last Wolves left in the world and it’s clear that something is weighing on his boy’s soul.

“Were you thinking of bringing someone next winter?” he asks. Lambert’s glance darts at him and he scowls.

“No. I mean, yeah. Perhaps? Maybe. If you don’t.” He catches himself, angry at how the words seem to get stuck in his throat. Lambert’s tongue has always been sharp and his barbs well placed, much to the other Witchers’ chagrin. What they don’t know is that humour and sarcasm had always come much easier to him than earnest words about himself. He always weighs those carefully, keeps them close to his chest lest someone might think he actually has a heart. Except, Vesemir knows that he does, knows how big it is, how capable of love if he just lets it.

“Who is it?” he asks, unable to keep a small smile from forming on his lips.

“His name’s Coën,” Lambert mumbles, so quietly that Vesemir could not have heard it without a Witcher’s senses. “A Griffin. Met him on the Path, two years ago. He’s…really nice.”

“Well. As long as it’s not a Cat.” Vesemir laughs. He bumps his shoulder into Lambert’s. “I’m happy for you, pup. Bring him whenever you like.” Lambert looks relieved, far more so than Vesemir suspected. His expression grows more serious again, however, when he looks out across the keep’s walls, remembers why they are here in the first place. He sighs, leaning down on his arms. They remain up there for a while longer, looking out for a sign of Geralt and Eskel that doesn’t come.

“It’s cold. We should go inside,” Vesemir says eventually, placing a hand on Lambert’s shoulder. “I’ll get started on dinner.” Lambert nods, not taking his eyes off the snowy landscape in front of them.

“I think I’ll stay a little longer,” he says and Vesemir pats his shoulder when he passes him by on the way down.

He has just finished the preparations for a pot of stew large enough to keep them fed for days when Lambert’s steps sound out in the hall outside and he throws open the door to the kitchen. His face is flushed, breathing hitched with excitement. Vesemir drops what he is holding and is on the move before Lambert even opens his mouth.

“They’re coming.”

Geralt and Eskel ride through the gates in the beginning darkness of the night not long after. Eskel has Geralt in front of him, Scorpion carrying both of them. Roach, carrying both their belongings, is tethered to Scorpion, dutifully following along.

Vesemir and Lambert are there to catch Geralt before he slips out of the saddle. Eskel more tumbles off than dismounts Scorpion behind him. Lambert slips a shoulder under Geralt’s arm without asking and has him halfway up the stairs and into the Keep when Vesemir finally loosens his embrace around Eskel’s strong shoulders.

“We didn’t think you’d make it back,” he says, not even trying to hide how rough his voice has become.

“Me neither, for a while,” Eskel mumbles out of the unscarred corner of his mouth. They lead the horses into the stables, see that they are properly looked after. Eskel stumbles more than once, his face grey with exhaustion, but refuses to let Vesemir take over all of his chores. Vesemir coaxes the story out of him eventually, somewhere between rubbing down the horses and finding Geralt curled up in the main hall in front of the fire, Lambert rebandaging and angry-looking gash in his side. How they had met up in Ard Carraigh, already slightly late on their journey back home. How they’d been attacked by two angry wyverns that had wounded Geralt and delayed them even more and how Eskel has somehow coaxed them through these past days, determined to make it home, but not wanting to ruin their horses or risk Geralt’s death so close to the keep and safety.

Eskel looks haggard as he recounts his story, but his face has regained at least some of its colour once he’s eaten some of the stew and warmed himself in front of the fire, never far from Geralt, who is sandwiched between him and Lambert. The hollow expression in his eyes slowly lessens and he smiles when Vesemir sits down next to him, providing a side for him to lean against if he so wishes.

Vesemir looks at them, then, his assembled pups, wishing more than ever that he could just keep them safe.

*

Geralt’s slows Roach’s steps as the familiar walls and towers of Kaer Morhen begin to loom in sight. He didn’t think that anything could bring him more pain these days – he’s been feeling numb all over ever since he’s scratched the dirt away from the medallion that is now a heavy weight in his pockets. Apparently, he was wrong.

He remembers the last time he rode up this path, so full of stories and expectations for the winter. So full of joy at the prospect of seeing his family again, of feeling Eskel’s lips on his, of the long winter nights ahead where they could get reacquainted. It seems like a lifetime ago now, although it’s been barely more than half a year. Geralt’s hands clench around the reins in his hand, but there is no escaping the inevitable. He gets Roach moving again.

As her hooves ring hollow on the flagstones of the courtyard, he muses how long it’s been since he’s seen the keep in early summer. There are flowers everywhere, not just on the meadows outside, but also on the inside, blooming between the stones in the courtyard, crawling up the slowly crumbling walls. Nature reclaiming the squat beast that has been sitting in the mountainside for centuries, like it eventually reclaims everything.

Geralt thinks of two leather pouches, half crumbling beneath his fingers, that he had buried in one of the flowery meadows in Redania. Eskel would’ve liked it there, he thinks. He’s always been made of soft things, the touch of an early morning, the first sigh of a snowflake on the ground, the little laugh at a particularly beautiful butterfly passing them by. Yes, he would’ve liked to rest in a place like that.

“Geralt.” Vesemir walks down the steps from the keep’s main door when he is halfway across the courtyard, leading Roach to the stables. His face is drawn and, for the first time since Geralt has known him, he looks truly old.

“I found him, papa,” Geralt whispers, pulling the medallion out of his pocket. “I brought him home.”

There is a crude scratching on the medallion’s back, that of pasqueflower. Geralt had spent so much time on it before they had left on the Path, in the spring when they had finally received their own medallions. _For you_ , he’d whispered into Eskel’s ear when he’d pressed the medallion into his hand. _So you won’t forget, even when we’re apart_. Eskel’s skin had been warm from the sun when he’d kissed him then.

Vesemir doesn’t say anything, but his entire being seems to shrink and crumble in front of Geralt’s eyes when he holds out his arms. Geralt holds on to him as if for dear life, buries his face in his shoulder, and cries. Vesemir’s arms are around him, holding him safe, although he can hear the choked breaths from his chest, feel the wetness on his skin. Vesemir strokes his hair, a soft murmur caught between them that neither can decipher. Like all of them, he’d been clinging to the hope that Eskel might still be alive, that he might have been caught by the early Winter unawares, had been injured and unable to make his way home and wintered somewhere else instead. Like all of them, he hadn’t wanted to believe it, not without proof.

“You did good, pup,” Vesemir mumbles. “You did good.”

 _But I didn’t_ , Geralt thinks. _Because he’s gone and I’m still here_.

They stand like this for a long time, until Roach nickers and begins to nose at Geralt’s back, eager to get into the stables and to the fresh hay that she can no doubt smell. Geralt turns around to her with a wet laugh and strokes her soft nose, giving Vesemir a moment to wipe away his tears and compose himself again.

In an unspoken agreement, they both look after Roach, see to it that she’s clean and comfortable in the stables before carrying Geralt’s saddle bag upstairs into the keep. The memories hit Geralt like a punch in the gut when he walks past the door to Eskel’s room, closed since the winter before last. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have to energy to open that door again and take stock of everything that was left behind. He drops his bags in his own room and takes off his armour, his entire body still numb when he fumbles with the clasps. He leaves the parts scattered hap-hazardly on the floor and finds that he doesn’t have the energy to clean himself (‘ _Slob_ ’, Eskel chides him in his memories, ‘ _leaving it now means you’ll have to deal with it later_. _C’mon, I can help you clean it up_ ’). He barely manages to dig out a clean shirt and pair of pants from the trunk at the end of his bed before the silence becomes too overwhelming and he flees back downstairs again, to help Vesemir with whatever he is doing.

He finds the old Witcher staring at the door frame leading to the kitchen, tracing a one of the countless nicks in the wood with his finger.

“Remember this one?” he asks. “Eskel threw a cup at Mikael when they were ten, because Mikael said that you were to small and weak to ever become a Witcher.”

Geralt shakes his head, grief gripping his throat like in an iron vice and robbing him of his words. There are so many things about Eskel that he’s already forgotten, it seems. So many moments he doesn’t remember. Suddenly, a terribly fear surges through him – fear that he will keep losing those memories until they are all gone, until nothing is left but the echo of a touch that was once more familiar to him than his soul.

“Ah.” Vesemir drops his hand abruptly and walks into the kitchen, Geralt following him. They prepare dinner together and eat it, with only the occasional word between them. Geralt knows that he should tell Vesemir what happened, should spend the evening with him, but suddenly he is tired beyond words, the numbness inside him spreading until he can barely move his limbs. He has barely taken a break on the long journey home and cannot even remember his last true rest.

“Sleep.” Vesemir’s hands are on him, guiding him to the cot in front of the fireplace, spreading a blanket over him. “Sleep, pup.” He squeezes Geralt’s shoulder before returning to his seat at the table, several bottles of White Gull in front of him. They are all empty when Geralt wakes the next morning and he leaves without eating breakfast.

Vesemir finds him on the meadow by the stables around noon, back leaning against the sun-warmed wood of the wall and one of the young goats in his lap, barely a few weeks old, whilst another is nibbling at his tunic. Eskel’s medallion is laid out on the grass in front of him, together with a vial of ash. Vesemir says nothing, just sits down next to him, and digs out a few small carrots from his pockets. He hands Geralt one and they sit side by side, feeding the goats for a while as the sun crosses the sky and warms their faces.

“It was harpies,” Geralt says, all of a sudden. He rips out a few blades of grass and crushes them in his fist, watches the green sap stain his skin. “A stupid nest of harpies. Not even some big, evil, dangerous monster. _Harpies_.” He throws the grass away, a wave of anger washing through him so strong that it almost takes his breath away. Vesemir remains quiet, one hand petting the goat sniffing at his pockets for more carrots.

“I went to Redania. It’s where he said he’d go, after we met in Ellander for Midaëte. Asked in every damn village if they’d seen a Witcher with a scarred face come through the previous year. Was almost stoned in one, and given free food and drink in the other, where he’d killed a grave hag for them.” Geralt sniffs, but there are no tears in his eyes. “Finally found a village where they almost chased me back out as soon as they saw me and my medallion. Just managed to get the story out of the alderman. They’d been swindled by a Witcher last year, he said. A Witcher with a scarred face and wolf medallion had taken a contract on a harpy colony that had made one of the mountain passes impassable. Witcher took the money and never returned.”

Geralt finds the words sticking in his throat and he has to pause before he can go on, hands shaking with remembered fury.

“I don’t know what happened. Maybe he was injured from a previous contract. Maybe he slipped and fell. Maybe he was just unlucky. But I found some of his gear on a meadow nearby. The medallion was in one of the nests. Some human bones, too. Don’t even know if they were his.” He gestures at the vial. He doesn’t remember most of what followed, a haze of grief hanging over it all, making it almost impossible to recount anything with true clarity. “Burnt what I could find, kept some of the ashes. Spread the rest on the meadows there. He always liked the flowers. I didn’t know what else to do so I just…came home.” He wipes at his eyes, but still, there are no tears, just a fierce burning, as if all his grief had devoured itself in a great fire.

“It’s just not fair,” he whispers.

“It rarely is,” Vesemir confirms. He digs a few more pieces of carrot out of his pockets to feed to the goats. The sorrow in his voice is tangible.

“I don’t know what to do. Don’t know how to go on. How do you even-“ Geralt bites his tongue, trying to stop the words because he isn’t sure he can finish the sentence. He is reminded of his first year on the Path, of how Vesemir had held him then, sick and wounded and broken-hearted. He thought this was the worst it was going to get – learning to deal with how he had failed those he was meant to save. But how did one deal with not even getting the _opportunity_ to protect? How is he supposed to live with one half of his heart just gone?

Vesemir shakes his head.

“Grief is never easy,” he says quietly, fumbling a little for words. “Nor is it meant to be. You- _we_ wouldn’t be hurting this much if we hadn’t loved so much, too. And there was a lot about Eskel to love. And a lot of love that he gave back. Don’t throw it away.”

 _But it’s gone now_ , Geralt wants to say. _What good is love if there is no one there to receive it? It just lies in your heart and festers, leaving you rubbed raw on the inside._

“I hate it. I don’t want it to be this way,” is all he finds himself saying, helpless in the face of his grief.

“None of us do.” Vesemir finally reaches out then and lifts his arm. After a moment of hesitation, Geralt moves over to him and leans into his side. He feels the sun on his skin, the sharp smell of the goats nearby and the comfort of Vesemir so close.

“We’ll have to tell Lambert when he comes back,” he mumbles. Another shard of glass, burying itself in his heart that is already pierced with them. Lambert will be crushed and angry, as angry as Geralt was. His grief has always been the more destructive sort and Geralt isn’t sure whether they’ll be able to contain it.

“We’ll think about it when the time comes,” Vesemir sighs. “For now, stay here for as long as you need.” 

_As long as you need_. Geralt doesn’t know what he needs. He doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is that he wants it to stop hurting, and so he buries his face in Vesemir’s side and closes his eyes, shuts out a world that seems determined only to take, and never to give, never to let him keep.

*

“You ready?” Vesemir’s voice is soft. Geralt nods.

He looks like he has aged decades in the weeks that he has spent here, ever since he came back home carrying Eskel’s medallion in his pocket and a broken heart in his chest. He is dressed in his armour again, for the first time since his return, and Roach is waiting in the courtyard, saddlebags packed and ready to go. He’ll try and find Lambert on the Path, make sure they both come back for winter. That much he has promised Vesemir.

They are standing on the parapet, looking out over the valley, which is bathed in summer sunshine. The days are long and the forests teeming with life, a sense of peace hanging over the keep.

Geralt has lost a little of the hollow look in his eyes and he isn’t quite as raw with grief anymore, although there is still something vulnerable about him, something that makes Vesemir want to reach out and protect him with all he has.

Still, his hands are shaking as he takes the little vial out of his pocket. He’s been carrying it with him every day, just like Eskel’s medallion that now hangs around his throat, his own securely tucked away in his room. Geralt unstoppers it and hold it out over the parapet, hesitates.

“I think you should do it,” he finally says, pressing it into Vesemir’s hands instead. “I think he’d want you to do it.”

Vesemir takes it after a moment’s consideration, his own fingers trembling just a little. Geralt leans against his side, their shoulders touching. It is a small movement in the end, something unfairly quick and easy for a task that is so monumental. The wind carries the ashes away, over the parapet and out into the valley where they vanish into the sun.

For a moment, Vesemir thinks he can see a flash of brown hair from the corner of his eyes, hear the soft laughter of the quietest of his boys. He whispers his words into the wind, lets them dissipate in the warm air of summer like a shadow melted by the light.

“Goodbye, pup.”

**Author's Note:**

> Vesemir: well Lambert as long as you're not bringing back a Cat  
> Lambert, three decades later, arriving at the keep with Aiden in tow: so, uh, about the Cat thing...


End file.
